Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  The next name caught Logan a little by surprise. When the chief called out, “Martin,” Logan flinched a bit. Martin’s name was the last in the group that he would have suspected to be connected with any sort of trouble. Eddie Martin was kind and calm and spiritual. He had started a Bible reading group with a few of the others. He had a religious soul about him, but he wasn’t overbearing or pushy with that crazy, glazed-over look. You couldn’t help but like the guy. He was the guy that, if things went to shit, you’d want in your corner.

  Logan was beginning to wonder what this was all about. Hell, if a guy like Martin was involved, any of their names might be next. Logan began to riffle through his memory of the past several days. Had there been something he screwed up on? Did he miss something? Then he heard his chief call out the last name on the list, “Patterson!” Nigel snickered and thought Vinegar. White Vinegar and Spring Water.

  The chief announced, “Everybody take a look. These are your company dopers!”

  The chief went on to bark and lecture on the need for trust, responsibility, accountability, loyalty, and dependability, but all Logan could think about was Martin. Damn. And, of course, that he was getting hungry.

  The three were escorted away by the Gestapo, two muscular first class petty officers from the Master at Arms shack. Many were certain that they would be marched to some stone wall to be readied and blindfold for a firing squad. As they walked by, the faces of Wilson and Patterson were drooped and defeated. Martin held his head up and maintained an I got Jesus glow about him. That made Logan smile.

  Well, it turns out “the sending your ass back home” comment made by Logan’s recruiter was a bit of a stretch, at least for back then. When the company got back to the barracks from their evening meal, there the three sat polishing their shoes at the foot of their rack. Turns out the Navy doesn’t send you home, but they sure as hell strip away everything else. All the professional schools and training and advancements that had been part of their contracts, poof, they were gone, only to be replaced by a guaranteed gig of chipping paint off some old tin can. The Navy needs those guys too.

  Nigel took his time heading home. With music blaring and his left arm draped out the driver’s side window, he took in the sights of the Apalachicola Bay. As he crossed the bridge, he counted three shrimp boats steaming home in front of a sun that was dropping fast before a western sky. He brought a knuckle to the brim of his visor and rendered a salute to their job he so appreciated. Tough work.

  As he came off the bridge and into Apalach, he rolled to a stop at the flashing light. He had a decision to make: Hang a left and stay on Highway 98 toward home, or cruise straight through and find a cold beer. He chose the latter.

  Nigel parked in front of Bowery Station but remained in the truck so he could finish listening to Brian’s song, Ode to Port St. Joe. He drummed on the steering wheel with his fingers as he sang along. St. Joe Beach, Cape San Blas, Money Bayou, and Indian Pass ... Ain’t life great, on Highway 98, and 30A too. Oh, Port St. Joe, Florida, USA ... Y’all come back soon.

  It was still a bit early and the bar traffic was a little light as Nigel entered the Bowery. Lisa was serving up beers and conversation to the handful of patrons milling about. Matt sat at the bar, studying some paperwork with a concerned look and furrowed brow. Nigel took stool 17 opposite him and Matt looked up and offered a smile. “Howdy, Nigel.”

  “That’s more like it,” said Nigel. “What’s with the troubled look?”

  Lisa slid a pint draft of Oyster City Blonde Ale in front of Nigel, to which he tugged at the bill of his visor and said, “Thanks, doll.”

  “Shrinkage,” Matt replied.

  “Oh, Hell,” Nigel said. “That can’t make Lisa very happy either.”

  “You guessed right there. She’s more upset about it than I am.”

  Nigel knew what he was referring to, but couldn’t pass up the opportunity to lighten the mood some. “Well ... I don’t know if you have seen it advertised or not. There’s a great TV infomercial about this little pill. It’s supposed to help a guy and his equipment perk up and bring overwhelming satisfaction to the opposite sex. They’re like steroids for your pecker.”

  The joke wasn’t received well as Matt said, “My inventory, Nigel. I’m talking about my inventory.”

  Lisa stuck her head into the conversation and said, “I saw the infomercial last week. I already ordered him a 30-day supply.”

  Nigel and Lisa both busted out laughing.

  Matt said, “Dammit, you two. This is serious.”

  That made the two of them laugh even more.

  Behind a thin, straight-lined smile, Matt did his best to maintain a controlled look of seriousness, but said nothing.

  “Hey Matt, if they don’t work out for you, can I give them a try?”

  Referring to a recent silly stunt where Red and Nigel streaked past hundreds of music lovers outside the Forgotten Coast Shrimp and Raw Bar, Lisa said, “Word travels fast in these parts. I hear you don’t need no pills, Nigel.”

  “Trust me,” Nigel said through his laughter. “That was nothing more than an optical illusion. The sun was casting just the right amount of shadow.”

  Now all three of them started to laugh, but Matt maintained some level of seriousness. Through his own chuckles, he said, “Shit, guys. Give it a break, will ya? I’m trying to work here.”

  “Okay ... okay, Mr. Businessman. Go about your number crunching.”

  Matt went back to studying the numbers and rubbing his head. Nigel was about to take a sip from his beer but stopped at the last second and asked, “Hey, Lisa ... that’s all you ordered, really, a 30-day supply?”

  “Goddammit, Nigel. Knock it off!”

  “Alright ... alright.” And Nigel pulled an imaginary zipper across his lips to signify he was done.

  The two of them sat in quiet for a while. Nigel sipped his beer while he watched Matt rub a shiny spot on his temple.

  “Okay,” Nigel said. “I’m no money man, but what has you so perfluncted?”

  Matt looked up, “Per what?”

  “Perfluncted. It’s a word. I just made it up. It means ...” Nigel thought for a second and said, “Ah shit. I’ll give it a definition later. What’s wrong, my friend? Talk to me.”

  “Something isn’t right. My numbers are way off.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like ... according to my sales data, I should have more beer in my inventory than I currently have.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “From what I’m looking at, about fifteen cases of beer.” Matt went back to rubbing his head. “I run a tight ship, Nigel. I do have some built-in expectations for some losses. You know, as a regular part of running the shop. Taking that into consideration, my numbers are always spot-on every month. But, for the last month or so, shit just don’t add up.”

  “What about the draft beer station? I would think it might be tough controlling that?”

  “Nope,” Matt said, “Everything on that front looks to be in line. No, I think it is in the bottles.”

  “Do you think someone is stealing straight from the cooler?” Nigel asked.

  “Naw. Hell, I’d notice something like that if it were happening. I’m usually the only one that goes back there. This is something else.”

  Nigel got up and patted him on the shoulder and said, “You’ll figure it out. It’s probably nothing but stupid math.”

  Nigel moved to the other end of the bar to give Matt some space. Lisa recharged his Oyster City draft while he went to the barrel of peanuts to grab a double fistful to crack and eat. By the time Brian showed up and started hauling in his gear, Nigel was on his third draft and had created quite an impressive pile of shells on the floor. Nigel was leaned up against the bar talking with a couple of the local fishing guides when he heard Lisa say, “Sorry guys. Happy hour is Monday through Friday, five to seven.”

  Nigel looked back over his left shoulder. A guy wearing a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer sungla
sses, a chartreuse button-down, and a smartass smile, asked, “Is that am or pm?”

  Lisa ignored the idiotic question and moved on. She was way too busy. The place was starting to get crowded; even Matt had put his troubles away and started to work the bar.

  Nigel turned the rest of the way around and looked at the guy. It was one of the preps he saw earlier on the corner of Highway 98 and the bridge road to St. George Island. The GQ dudes dealing with the parrot boy. Nigel looked around the room and found the others. They weren’t hard to spot. Three attractive gals accompanied them in like attire. Their hair was done just so, and great thought went into their outfits, all the way down to the huge bug-eyed sunglasses and floppy hats. They could have been models for some New England fashion magazine. The gals improved the guys’ appearances, but it didn’t make them look any less stupid.

  Charles, one of the fishing guides, saw the guys too and said, “Hey, fella. That’s a great color you’re wearing there.”

  The preppy guy at the bar said, “Excuse me?”

  “Your shirt. That color is great ... on the tail of a pearl-white Gulp bait. Otherwise ...” And he started to laugh.

  The GQ boy had no idea what Charles was talking about. He kind of chuckled to himself behind a sheepish smile as he grabbed his happy hour token off the bar and rejoined his crowd.

  At Bowery Station, people don’t have to look at their watches to know if happy hour is on or not. Matt has a yellow ball cap attached to a halyard that runs to a block in the middle of the ceiling. At the commencement of happy-hour the cap is raised with great celebration, bell ringing, and cheers from the crowd. The BOGO party is on.

  The Bowery Station happy hour token is used to keep up with the freebies. They’re wooden nickels with the B.S. logo stamped in the middle and Bowery Station, Apalachicola, Fl. spelled out around the edge. During happy hour, patrons get one with each beer or wine purchase. As long as the hat is flying, the tokens can be used in exchange for a refill. And if you forget to use a token one day, you can use it some other time. A pretty smart gimmick that everyone enjoys, just listen for the bell and watch for the cap.

  Brian was playing to an enthusiastic crowd behind the two tip jars provided by Matt and Lisa. Each jar has a handwritten sign hanging out front. One says Keep Playing; the other says Stop Playing. Most of the tourists don’t pay much attention to the signs. If somebody drops a tip into the Stop Playing bucket, the locals will start a jolly ruckus and give them a good-natured ration of shit.

  That’s what happened when one of the New England beauties dropped a ten-dollar bill in the wrong bucket. Boooo! Boooo! B.S., B.S., Bullshit, Move it, Move it over!

  It didn’t take long for her to realize almost everybody in the joint was yelling at her. But once she did, she couldn’t understand why. She caught more hell than most, especially from the guys, probably because she was so damn pretty.

  It got so rowdy it interrupted one of Brian’s new songs, April, May, June. He stopped playing. She stood there with her hand over her mouth, embarrassed. Playing along Brian said, “Sweetheart, if you go ahead and fill that jug up, I’ll be happy to pack up all my shit and be home by six.”

  She looked at Brian but remained clueless. Nigel walked up to her. She was pouting and pulling on her bottom lip. She looked like she was about to cry. Nigel smiled and winked and pointed to the sign. She read it. Then Nigel pointed to the other sign on the other bucket. She read it. Then a light came on and she rushed to move her tip from one bucket to the other. The place went crazy with cheers and whistles, while Matt banged on the ship’s bell. Now everyone was laughing and she started crying tears of happiness.

  She turned and hugged Nigel. Then she gave him a big kiss on the cheek, then on the lips. At first, he just stood there. Then he played along and kissed her back, but, at the same time, was thinking of how he was going to explain this to his girlfriend Candice. And he would have to, no doubt. Shit ... chances are she would know about it before he even got home.

  The kiss lasted a bit longer than either Nigel or her boyfriend expected. After about five seconds the boyfriend came off his stool yelling, “Hey, you son of a bitch. Take your hands off her.” One of his other buddies followed along as back-up. The guy in chartreuse stayed behind.

  After about four steps in, a huge fella reached out and placed a wide palm on the chest of the boyfriend stopping him, “Whoa. Whoa, pretty boy. You don’t even want to think about it.”

  The boyfriend looked past the big guy. His girlfriend and Nigel were still kissing. He said, “Screw you,” and tried to push past, but the massive fingers never budged.

  “She’s a little drunk. Everybody is having a good time and everything is going to be all right. Now go back to your seats.”

  From the stage, Brian was patient but said into the mic, “Get a room. I’m trying to do a show here.”

  The boyfriend’s buddy said, “Yeah, Chip. Come on. Give it a rest.”

  The big guy chuckled. “Chip? ... really? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  That’s when the girlfriend ceased her lip lock on Nigel. The crowd erupted into cheers again. She looked up at him with glazed-over eyes and said, “Damn. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She tried to kiss him again, but he smiled as he held her off at arm’s length, “Okay, darling. I think that’s enough; your 60 seconds of fame are over. Let’s get you back with your group.” Nigel looked over his shoulder at Brian and said, “From the top, brother.”

  Nigel put his arm around her waist and escorted her back. That’s when Nigel saw the massive body of Luther Collins standing in the crowd. Otherwise known as Little Bit, Luther is a shrimper from Port St. Joe. He’s also the guy that protected Chip from a possible beating of his life.

  As they walked by, Nigel stopped and said, “Hey, Little Bit. Whatcha doing in Apalach?”

  “Just working. Ned Carlson needed someone on Miss Molly.”

  “Good to see ya.”

  Nigel and the girlfriend made it back to her group. The boyfriend was still mad. “Hey, guys. I think she is one of yours.”

  The girlfriend did the right thing and walked up to the boyfriend and kissed him. He lightened up a bit after that.

  Over the music, they made their introductions. Nigel looked over at the boyfriend and said, “Sorry ‘bout that kiss. I guess she got a little carried away.”

  The group was not from New England, but Charleston, South Carolina. All six of them had recently graduated from the College of Charleston and decided on a road trip. While talking with Zane, the guy in a powder blue polo and pastel yellow shorts, Nigel learned they had just gotten into town that morning and they had never been to the area before.

  Nigel looked at Duke, the guy in chartreuse, and thought of the B.S. token. If you’ve never been here before, where did you get the token? Then he remembered the corner transaction and the parrot boy.

  Nigel reached into his own pocket and found a token of his own. He brought it out and asked Duke, “Hey, did I see you drop this earlier?”

  Duke said, “I don’t think so and produced a handful of tokens from his own pocket. He held them out for Nigel to see and said, “I think I’m set. Must be somebody else’s.”

  Nigel looked at the pile of tokens and said, “Yeah. I see that.”

  Nigel bid them a farewell and headed back to his stool which was now occupied by someone else. Move your feet, loose your seat. There was, however, a fresh draft waiting on him. Lisa slid it to him and said, “Here. You’re going to need this.”

  “Thanks, Lisa.”

  Nigel took a sip of the beer and turned around to listen to the music. As Brian was finishing up a John Prine song, Nigel heard his phone bong. It was a text from Candace. He opened it up and read the short six-word message in all caps: I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT!

  Nigel spoke to his phone, “What?” Then his phone bonged again. Another text, this time an image. It was of him and the girl kissing. Oh Shit. Nigel looked
at the picture again and took a sip of beer. His head snapped around remembering what Lisa said when she slid him the beer. You’re going to need this.

  He looked toward the bar to find Lisa grinning and laughing. She said something to him, but he had to read her lips: You are in big trouble. Then she gave him a wink.

  Lisa had taken the picture and sent it to Candice. Unbeknownst to Nigel, she also called Candice and explained everything. He would have a lot of explaining to do, and Candice was going to love every minute of it. She planned to work it for all it was worth.

  Nigel reached into his pocket and found a twenty-dollar bill and a couple of tens. He flipped thirty bucks on the bar and dropped the other ten in Brian’s tip bucket. Brian gave nod of thanks while he strummed his guitar and played the harmonica. Nigel showed him the picture as he played. Brian’s eyes got wide and he stopped his mouth harp just long enough to announce, “Trouble in paradise, folks. Give my love to the missus, brother.” He went back to playing as Nigel headed to the door, dialing his phone.

  The next morning Nigel was quiet in his bed. A diagonal path of light stretched across the bed as the early morning sun found its way in through a gap in the curtains. He had been awake for hours and had already been up once to have a pot of coffee. But, he had decided to be lazy and slip back into bed. With his fingers laced behind his head, he starred at the ceiling.

  A little later he felt movement. He turned his head to find Candice studying him. She slid a hand across the mattress and up across his chest. She moved closer and slung her right knee over his legs. She continued to scoot in until she rolled on top of him. She kissed him on the neck and sat up so she was on her knees, straddling his hips.

  She was gorgeous and perfect in her nakedness, even first thing in the morning. He reached up and touched the side of her face and slid his hand down her neck and across her beasts.